


Mischief Night

by accidental



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-02
Updated: 2011-11-02
Packaged: 2017-10-25 15:47:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/accidental/pseuds/accidental
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short little seasonal story. I've taken the liberty of inventing a Fereldan version of bonfire night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mischief Night

They had done this every year, back home in Ferelden - built fires to mark the coming of winter. No one knew how or when the tradition had started; it dated back to a time long before the Chantry, before history; born from an instinctive belief in the power of light and laughter to drive back the dark.

In Kirkwall, the refugees built their bonfire on a stretch of waste ground near the docks, far from home.

Lucas Hawke watched the flames in silence. The memories the night invoked were bittersweet; Carver and Bethany darted through them, dressed as little ghosts, begging coppers for toffee apples and roasted chestnuts.  
Lucas had resented the way he always had to follow them around and make sure they didn’t talk to strangers, or play too near the fire. And then when they’d really needed him he hadn’t been able to protect them, and now both of them were lost - Beth was dead, and Carver might as well be. Thinking about it made his chest ache.

Sparks danced against the black sky, and the children shrieked and chased each other in circles around the fire, while their parents drank and talked about the past. Hawke was conscious of a  sharp edge to the laughter, an underlying atmosphere of disquiet that hadn’t been there, back when demons and monsters were only fireside tales. The refugees had seen evil for themselves, now, and fear cast deep shadows around them.

He shivered, and moved closer to Anders. He wouldn’t have minded calling it a night, but his lover seemed to be enjoying himself. He was pointing out a pumpkin lantern that he insisted looked just like Uncle Gamlen.  

“You’re not cold, are you love?” Anders took Hawke’s hands in his own, and guided them beneath his coat, against his chest.  Warm flesh, a heart beating steadily against the palm of his hand, and still Lucas felt like he was staring into the eyes of the dead.

“We can go home if you want,“ Anders said. “I just wanted to see the fireworks...”

Hawke shook his head. “We’ll stay as long as you like, ” he insisted. He liked to see Anders happy - the mage didn’t smile nearly as often as he should.

As if on cue, a loud cracking sound split the sky, and the night exploded in sparks of silver and gold. They stood hand in hand beneath a shower of stars.

Anders let out a little sigh of pleasure.

Behind them, a roar came from the crowd, as a figure cobbled together from sacks and straw and dressed in a gaudy robe, was flung into the centre of the bonfire.

“Burn the bloodmage!” someone shouted, and the cry was greeted with a chorus of cheers, catcalls, and howls of drunken laughter.  
"Burn the maleficar!"

Hawke felt the muscles in his shoulders tense. He was reminded again of how far from home he was; sometimes the city of chains might as well have been another world. “Are you all right, love?” He turned to Anders, expecting to see his own disquiet reflected in his lover’s expression, but Anders was miles away. He stood with his face tilted to the sky, a smile barely there on the corners of his lips as colours burst over him, bathing him in the cold blue light of justice, the ruby red of blood.

Somewhere behind his eyes a tiny spark flickered, caught light, and began to smoulder.


End file.
